


remember: (verb) to be trapped by regret

by punkrockbadger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Post - Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:09:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2955080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockbadger/pseuds/punkrockbadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are few of their number left, after the Second Wizarding War, and Abhay Patil wonders if his fate, as one of the survivors, is to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	remember: (verb) to be trapped by regret

There are few of their number left, after the Second Wizarding War, and Abhay Patil wonders if his fate, as one of the survivors, is to remember.

He remembers a father and son, nearly thirty years ago now, standing in the corner during gatherings of the Indian Pureblood community.

He remembers the father, strong and intimidating, but with an easy smile and stories to tell that amazed all the children. He remembers the son, a year younger than him at the outside, grinning as he balanced on one leg, raising the other to scratch the back of his calf with his toes.

He remembers the way James Potter wrapped himself in foot-thick layers of bravado and confidence just to keep himself safe, remembers the way he always looked ready to run, remembers the kind smile that lit up dark corridors.

He remembers all of those things, and sees them all in this boy standing before him, looking completely worn out and too old to be the same age as his daughters. The eyes are different, yes, but that is all that sets him apart from a boy that Abhay remembers from twenty years ago, grinning as he dared Death to lay a finger on him.

And maybe, even though he was too late to save the boy he thought of as his little brother, he can do some good by this boy in James’ name.

“Mr. Patil, nice to meet you.” Harry nods in his direction, eagerly holding a hand out to shake, and he takes it, shaking it firmly. Harry is a little shorter than James was at seventeen, a little on the thinner side, but Abhay, who remembers Molly Prewett from school, knows that won’t be true for long.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Harry.” Harry’s smile is a little hesitant, but it’s an echo of Lily rather than James.

And Abhay remembers her too, remembers James’ endless string of thoughts about this girl who was too pretty and too smart and too confusing, and remembers when he first met her in a Potions study group he was running. He’d asked why she was there at all, having heard from Slughorn that she was a genius at an art that usually took decades to master, and she’d replied, with a smile, that there was always more to be learned.

It is hard, he thinks, not to see the shadows of the people they have lost in this boy, who seems to be the best parts of all of them rolled together, but he owes it to them to meet Harry first and see the pieces of them later.

He remembers Parvati talking about a boy who dared speak back to a Ministry official, remembers Padma’s letters growing exponentially within the space of a year, detailing all of the things Harry had taught them. Harry, and all those who have come before him, have done his family a world of good, and maybe, it is time to start giving back.

“So”, Abhay begins, clearing his throat. “I imagine you haven’t had much, in the way of your parents’ things. I have some old photographs, if you’d like them.”

“That would be brilliant.” He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s eyes light up at the promise of more information (Lily) and the way his smile widens (James) and the way his shoulders go down just slightly (James) at the revelation that this man is someone he can trust (Lily).

“I’ll be looking forward to your owl, then, Mr. Potter.” Parvati pulls him away, toward some girl named Lavender that she desperately wants him to talk to, and he sees Harry wave goodbye out of the corner of his eye, looking a little less tired.

If that is what he can give to this boy, he will.

And, maybe, someday, he will forgive himself for letting his friends meet death alone.


End file.
